BURGER SCOOT

Recently, I recalled (thanks to my wife: my one-woman brain trust) that my parents once worried that I was going to grow up a dwarf–that I might have Achondroplasia. It’s true! And looking at the images of dwarfish children at Achondroplasia.com I can see similarities between these little people and my kindergarten/first/second grade self.  

My parents even sent me to a specialist who, I vaguely recalled, sat me on his lap and said I had nothing to fear; I was going to grow up like all the other kids in my school and around me. This shadowy piece of memory surprises me to this day because he made it sound like I was the one who petitioned my parents to see the specialist–like the way I bugged them for a drum kit.  

While I was on his lap I should have replied, “Sooo, you’re telling me I won’t be picked last for dodgeball or have my best childhood friend come to my defense saying, ‘Don’t pick on Jack, he’s not born right. Isn’t that right, Jack.” (Thanks for coming to my aid with those soothing words, Jesse!) No, the doctor could not see my slow hand-eye coordination or my seizure disorder, or my lazy eye coming down the pike, but the man was only addressing my supposed dwarfism. 

I didn’t know what a dwarf or little person was at that time except for the Munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. I remember Scott Marmaduke (Yes, there are real people with that last name!), and I jockeyed for the second-to-shortest student in the first few years of elementary school, but I know now neither of us were Munchkins.  

Those were brutal days for young tender egos: teachers would line us up from tallest to shortest for various reasons, but individual and class photos were the main reasons. (Ironically, a kid with the last name of Minnow was usually the tallest.) My generation’s “I walked five miles in the snow to get to school” was those little things like line ups and Little League trophies for only the best team and batting against (wild) pitchers, no such thing as Tee ball. Those things were our generation’s response to our kids receiving “participation trophies” and helicopter parenting. 

Sometime after it was determined I was not a dwarf my sister dated someone who took one look at me and saw potential: I could be a jockey. In reflection, this was quite funny, considering I clearly did not have the build of a jockey nor do dwarfs, for that matter. Years later I would read the brilliant book Seabiscuit: An American Legend by Laura Hillenbrand and learned of the struggle of the thoroughbred ‘s jockey Red Pollard to keep his weight down. (Pollard was not fat, he was 5’7, a giant among jockeys.) Man, my sister’s old boyfriend had no idea what kind of struggle weight control would be for his protege. It’s a family joke now as it should be. Now in my sixties I have discovered I am shrinking. I was once 5’6 and now I am 5’5. I’m not a real-life Benjamin Button, just bent thanks to heredity and 30 years of being bent over a desk. 

If I had turned out to be a dwarf, it would be nice to be a relatively good-looking and very talented one like Peter Dinklage. I have never seen any of the Game of Thrones episodes, though I have seen the Red Wedding scene along with half of the entire English-speaking world. Maybe someday I will watch the series. For now, however, I will be happy with his performances in films like The Station Agent, Cyrino, and what I know will be as wonderful as it looks in the trailer: She Came to Me. 

I grew up healthy and now in my elder years my body is starting to break down: gall bladder removed, blood pressure up, what I think is arthritis beginning to make its grand appearance, and waking up each morning feeling like I had been beaten by two thugs with blackjacks the previous night when all I have done the day before was read, walked or road my bike, and watched TV.

I don’t think any doctor would tell me I was going to grow older gracefully–shrink maybe an inch more, but I think riding a thoroughbred to the next Triple Crown, or late-life dwarfism–if there is such a thing–is not in my dwindling selection of cards.